


It's the Quiet Ones (You have to watch)

by Onehundredcandlesburning



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Erotica, F/M, One Shot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 14:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1350592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onehundredcandlesburning/pseuds/Onehundredcandlesburning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A visitor to London encounters Tom through a friend of a friend and goes on a series of short meetings that result in a very interesting night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's the Quiet Ones (You have to watch)

**Author's Note:**

> My very first attempted 'raunch'. (D'awww nostalgia).

I was always told “It’s the quiet ones you have to watch” by my Mother, and by many elder Women in my life. I never realised just how true that rang until I met him.

He was ever so polite, and rather dapper. A picture of the English gentleman.

We’d met through friends of friends at an after party. I was in London at the time visiting one of said friends. I’d had one of those ‘when hell freezes over’ moments. Struck by his height, poise, pressed trousers and white shirt, matching vest and black tie. He had been putting every other man there to shame in so many ways. I watched him, just come off the dance floor, sleeves rolled up, running a hand through his hair and chatting with friends at the bar. I had already resigned myself that this was about as close as I’d be to him. How I was mistaken. While the attention was on him, he was gregarious and portrayed a very self-confident man. As soon as the attention was off him, he seemed to retreat into his shell and seem almost shy. I’d watched him for long enough to study his mannerisms and they intrigued me. I knew he was a performer, so I assumed the shy, resigned fellow was the true self without an audience. A ‘Quiet One’.

It turned out my friend knew one of the people he was speaking with, so she grabbed my arm and dragged me over to make introductions. I fought to keep some semblance of self-esteem on the long walk over.

"You can do this" became my mantra. I’d been in situations before, when I had been struck by someone who I had thought was completely out of my league, only to realise due to my overwhelming sense of individual style I was in fact an object of affection myself. We always see from the inside out quite differently to the rest of the world. I convinced myself that it didn’t matter what anyone thought of me. I was happy. It was true. and that itself contributed to my individuality. A fuck-you undertone to the naysayers.

His friend was overjoyed to see my friend. The attention on this man was stolen for a moment as our friends embraced and squealed like theatre folk do. Dramatic and completely over the top. Making a nice little scene. That left him mid conversation, slipping into his shyness, and me standing like loon. I piped up, offering him a drink.

"Two vodka tonics" I placed the order over his shoulder to the man behind the bar. We introduced ourselves and to my surprise instantly hit it off. He was enamored with my accent, and I with his. We talked for what seemed like a moment, but in fact became hours. I watched as my attention on him brought him back out of his shell. Talking music, theatre, film, books, both spitting out quips and having the other in stitches as the vodka tonics came thick and fast. It was only when my friend tapped me on the shoulder and said she was going home that I realised it was two in the morning.

She asked if I was coming. I looked up at my newly found companion who was grinning at me like a Cheshire Cat. He asked if I wanted to meet up for coffee in the morning. His singular day off that week. We exchanged numbers and went our separate ways.

Make no mistake, I am not a morning person. But that morning I was up, showered and in my winter dress, boots, scarf and cute retro jacket by 7am. My friend was bleary eyed and surprised that the hangover I had wasn’t affecting me more negatively.

We met at 10. A little spot near his place. Wasn’t far. He had a similar scarf on. Topic of conversation for at least a half hour. Scarves. The coffee was divine. I skipped the eggs on toast. But watched him enjoy his. I survived the lecture about having breakfast. Found it almost endearing that he cared. I took my poetry book with me, and let him read over some of the less 'steamy' stuff. After three coffees and a bottle of water the only disappointment was my bladder. I'd gauge I was having to visit the 'little girls' room every fifteen minutes at one stage there. By midday we knew each other's life stories. He was aware I had one week left before I had to go home. This resulted in a dinner invitation for the following Saturday. There were many texts exchanged through the next 48 hours. Including a rather hilarious meme war. My friend tried to talk me into staying longer, but I had too many responsibilities waiting at home. I was gutted.

By Wednesday the dinner invite had been brought forward and changed to lunch. Same cafe around the corner from his place. He knew my time was limited. He brought a single red rose with him. I was speechless. He was performing that evening, so again we had limited time. I sulked back to my friend’s place, shoulders hunched. Until my phone sounded a text. He had invited my friend and I to the Thursday night session of his play.

It was amazing. He was amazing. As soon as it finished, I sent him a text telling him so. My phone rang as we were moving out of the front of the theatre. It was him. He wanted me to wait. My friend went ahead as she had to be up early for work the next day. She remarked that she wouldn’t wait up. Apparently it was our third date, and that meant it could get interesting. News to me.

He told me to wait at the entrance to the alley where a car would be waiting. Down the alley there were throngs of fans waiting for him. I’d had no idea he was so popular. I could see why. A mass of bodies was moving in a huddle, like a rugby scrum, toward me. I panicked and stepped aside. I felt someone grab my arm and pull me into the black car. Bodyguards were pressed against the door. Holding the crowd back. He apologised for grabbing my arm so tightly. I didn’t mind.

He asked if I wanted a drink, or if I’d like to have a nightcap at his place. I took the latter option as he looked tired, I’d realise later that looks could indeed be deceiving. We shared a Jameson on the rocks. His place was beautiful. Like him. But cluttered. I’d forgotten that even celebrities and the wealthy had relatively compact rooms in these old places. I was so used to vast space of home.

He kept complimenting my dress, my hair, my boots, my coat, my jewelry, my scent. I kept blushing and returning the compliments with a shy thanks. I knew he wouldn’t invite just anyone back to his place, and we were completely at comfort with one another, feeling like we had met a million times. He excused himself to go shower, and turned the heating on in the lounge, letting me connect my phone to his speakers and select some music.

Ten minutes later he emerged. His hair wet, slicked back, two small curls hanging down onto his forehead, fighting the rest of his hair’s direction. He smelled like soap. He wore a pair of jeans and a loose grey v neck tee shirt. His arms were muscular but lean. I couldn’t help but study the veins and structure of them under his clean, pale skin.

He sat next to me on the lounge chair. A little love seat. Complimenting my taste in music. Conversation continued. A study of the chord structure, lyrics and history of the genre of the song we were listening to. An hour passed and he yawned.

I asked him if he wanted me to leave him be. He shook his head and reached out his hand to stroke his long fingers along the bracelet on my wrist, tracing up my forearm under the jacket I still had on. He lowered his eyes, saying he thought I was an astonishing creature.

I jumped. My skin tingling. Then took a deep breath and relaxed into the moment. We stood, he took my jacket off me and hung it on a hook at the back of the door, then reached for my hand. Lacing his fingers through mine, he led me into his bedroom.

He cupped my face between his large artistic hands and stared right into my eyes. I was losing myself in his. I could see the essence of him behind his big blue orbs. He pulled me close to him, and brushed my hair aside, lowering his lips to my neck. Soft and searing hot little kisses. He trailed along to the front of my neck and up, along under my chin and settling against my lips. His tongue as soft as his lips, weaving around mine. Firm.

As he kissed me, he ran his thumb along my cheek, moving his fingers underneath my hair, cradling my head back. I was dizzy. My hands reached up around behind his back, massaging. He groaned into my mouth.

"Oh my god, you have magical hands." His lips millimetres from mine

"Would you like a massage?" I had studied back home but rarely had the opportunity to use my talents.

Within two seconds he was rummaging through his drawers and cupboard, ran off to the bathroom and emerged brandishing a bottle of moisturising liquid. “Will this do?” He tossed it on the bed as I nodded and tore his shirt off. “Where do you want me?” He stood there like a god. His thin frame defined. His hands held out at his sides, questioning.

"Bed, face down" I rolled the sleeves of my dress up. He took a leap and landed with a thud, pulling at his pillows and folding his arms underneath his chin. He was giggling. I couldn’t help but laugh. He reminded me of a young boy, the way he had launched himself and was all excited.

"You should be honoured." I climbed on the bed, up on my knees, assessing the best way to sit so I could get leverage to apply the right pressure across his broad shoulders. My dress hitched up I threw a leg over and perched myself on his bottom.

"You should really take that off. You’d be much more comfortable, and it’s warm enough in here." He was looking at me over his shoulder. I playfully slapped at his bottom beneath me. He twitched, another groan.

I pumped the lotion into my palm, rubbing my hands together to warm the cold ointment. He made some lewd comment about it sounding like I was preparing for something else. It shocked me. Then excited me. He was, as I had been told, a ‘quiet one’ after all.

I placed my hands palms down on his shoulder blades and began working my hands and fingers in an effleurage either side of his back, tracing along the outsides of his spine. Then back up and kneeling at the knots in this shoulders. Working my thumbs into his traps. He was moaning into the pillow. My music filtered through from the lounge, Dead Can Dance. I heard him agree to it, muffled by his pillow.

I finished his shoulders, blades, middle back and started to push my thumbs into his lower back. He squirmed. “Too hard?”

He sighed. “Yes, as a matter of fact I am” that laugh was infectious. Cheeky.

"I have to lower your jeans." I tugged at the belt line, trying to pull them down to complete his lower back and glutes.

"Let me" he lifted me up with his bottom, uncoupling his jeans and tugging. For someone so slender he was surprisingly strong.

He lowered back to the bed, me with him riding on his seat. I pulled the waistline of his underwear down enough to give me access to his coccyx. Kneading at his flanks and the top of his cheeks. He growled. “Divine”

No sooner had I said I was finished, he toppled me. Sprung off the bed, tearing his jeans off. I rolled onto my back, tired, but satisfied with his reaction of standing tall and stretching his muscles out. “Darling, what else can those magic hands do?” He crawled up from the foot of bed on all fours over me, slowly lifting up my dress. I sat up the help him lift it over my head. He cast it aside at the end of the bed with his jeans and buried his face in between my breasts. Those hot kisses again, my blood stirring.

"Mmm you taste like fresh apricots" he trailed down my belly, his tongue darting out into my belly button.

"Uh…" I twisted on the bed. Writhing under his mouth.

He tore my underwear off, my bra still cupping my breasts.

He stated his hand, rolling his four fingers through the damp folds, circling around my clit, letting it slip between his fingers, feeling me grow more and more wet.

"Uh" I shifted my hips. He was moving too slowly, but that’s what he wanted to do. Drag this out. Make me beg. I lasted another half hour before I couldn’t stand anymore and pulled him up to me. He uncoupled my bra and devastated my nipples. Pinching, sucking, nipping.

He jumped up, sucking his fingers and grabbed a condom from his drawer. Cracking it open and sliding it over his magnificent, overly erect cock.

I moved aside, prompting him to lay down as I straddled him. Guiding him into me. We both moaned deeply. I gently rocked above him. His hands alternating between gripping at my hips and toying with my breasts.

He lifted my hips, asking me up to my knees so he could pound me. Not enough. He rolled me, using all his strength. Pinning me to the bed and forcing his way inside me

His pace quickening, I felt the wave rising through my body.

"I.. I’m cumming!" I breathed. His eyes locked on mine, he watched me explode, writhing, pouring across the bed, arching, twitching, moaning. I gripped him. Convulsed around him. He especially loved the way my pelvis and hips moved. Languid, rocking around and back and forth, gyrating under him. Feeling the sensuality of my own skin. He was still going. Pumping into me. He wanted a change of scenery. Withdrawing and forcing me over onto my belly.

"Fuck, Tom!" I grumbled, half joking, exhausted from my orgasms. His laugh was pure evil and he seized the opportunity. Ran his hands over my arse. So smooth and perfect he kept proclaiming. He did like my curves, especially here. Meaty, something to dig himself into. He crawled upon me. His rigid cock sprung like a coil. He lay himself across me, pushing the tip through my folds, groaning at my wetness. I turned my face to the side, still resting on the pillow. He leant down, his entire length filling me, his lips breathing hotly on my cheek, kissing me, a trail up towards her ear biting gently.

I came another four times. He made me insatiable and he managed to keep going. Drawing so close I thought he’d explode but then backing off.  
I was sore but still throbbing for him.

I reached under myself. Grabbing at his balls and rolling them gently between my fingers. Trigger. He gasped and released a slow, loud, steady groan. Bingo. He collapsed on top of my back. Sweaty and spent.

He pressed his teeth against my shoulder. I shuddered. He was still inside me and felt my contractions again, just from his teeth and having him still buried inside me. The sensitivity making him gasp. He withdrew and ran his fingers back down to toy with my dripping, swollen sex.  
"Tom…" I hardly had any voice left, but had found myself asking a very odd question in this moment. Combination of over-orgasmed and the dizzying reality of him.  
"Yes, darling" he purred in my ear.

"Tell me what it’s like to have such a big hard cock."  
He laughed, strumming at my clit unable to leave it alone, making me grind into him with my behind.  
"Hmmm Darrrrling, that’s a hot question…like a limb that has been tucked away, stretching out for the first time in ages. With intense need to fuck." emphasising the ‘uck’.

He was the most intelligent, amazing, hottest, most sensual man I’d met. Well put, answer. I took the next two orgasms and aimed to fall asleep beside him. “Let’s have a lay in tomorrow.” He spooned up against me. Already getting hard again. I couldn’t believe his stamina. He whispered hotly in my ear.

"I must confess… That breakfast we had together… All your breaks to the bathroom? I simply had to read that poetry book of yours, and well… It made me harder than I had known possible."

We’d need that lay in.


End file.
